


In Silence

by dweadpiwatemeggers



Series: Emerald and Bronze [8]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: But softly, Established Relationship, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26292067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweadpiwatemeggers/pseuds/dweadpiwatemeggers
Summary: He is not a man of many words. But she's never been much of a talker either. Silence and non-verbal communication work much better for both of them.
Relationships: Female Detective/Adam du Mortain
Series: Emerald and Bronze [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948069
Comments: 12
Kudos: 54





	In Silence

**Author's Note:**

> For those trying to wrap their heads around the furniture layout of the cabin, it's a single room. Everything is close to everything else.

They had taken her canoe out to the island at dawn, the pink light of the early morning which promised a stormy afternoon. She had steered. He had accepted that. Once, he might have growled at having her take charge. Once, that might have caused her to bristle. Once, the silence would have been oppressive, awkward. Later, he might have objected to being alone with her. Later, that might have caused her to tense. Later, the silence would have been filled with unsaid things. But the things which had needed saying had been said. Now, the silence was easy, comfortable, with their paddles dipping in the bay, the loons calling through the mists. Now, the silence was broken not by stomping feet, but by the quiet crunch of the hull on the shore, the rustle of packs being carried, a grunt as the boat is lifted onto its rack, footsteps sounding hollowly on the wooden stairs up to the cabin.

She had wandered to edge of the island to paint before the weather socked in; he had stayed behind with a sheaf of unfinished reports. He had told her that she would likely get rained on. She had retorted that she’d be back before he finished his work.

\--

The rains come earlier than either of them expected, send her scampering back to the cabin, completely drenched before she gets even halfway. He is waiting at the door with a towel and a smug smile which seems to say _I told you so_. She places her boots on the rack, stands to face him and smirks, glancing pointedly at the papers scattered over the table, clearly incomplete. He chuckles and steps towards her, drapes the towel over her shoulders and uses it to pull her close, brushes her streaming hair away from her face as he takes her face in his hands to kiss her.

“I’ll soak you,” she whispers into his mouth, half-giddy, half-giggling, arms coming up to circle his shoulders.

“I don’t care,” he whispers back, his voice husky.

Somewhere between the first and the fifteenth, the kiss turns hungry, the puddle from her dripping clothes is gathering around their feet and soaking into his clothes wherever she is pressed against him. Somewhere between the fifteenth and the twenty-seventh, they begin to stumble through the room together. Her shirt is pulled away to land with a wet thump behind the couch, his is pushed up and tossed beside the armchair as they fumble towards the bed. 

Standing beside it, her hand drifts down, over the solid wall of his chest, the planes of his stomach. Down, until it comes to rest on his belt buckle. She waits there, a question, until she feels his hand press against hers in answer, _yes_ , and she fumbles with it, one-handed, until it’s open. Then, the button of his pants, his zipper, and she holds her hand in place, hovering, until he shifts just enough to meet her, the back of her knuckles grazing against the ridge in his boxer-briefs. Only then does she wrap her fingers around him. He groans against her lips. She smiles into the kiss. He pulls her hand away, pulls it up to his shoulder, grabs her behind the thighs and lifts her knees over his hips, presses her back against the wall and rolls against her. She whimpers, feels her eyes roll back in her head. His hands shift, gripping her at hip and thigh, and he presses her closer, even as she pulls him in.

It’s a challenge. It’s an endurance test. It’s wanting, and waiting, and wanting more, oh _God_ , so much more, but not wanting to stop, kisses becoming frantic until someone finally breaks long enough to whisper, “I want all of you,” and he lets her slide to the ground as two sets of hands push at two pairs of pants until there’s a heap of clothing on the ground and they’re both left bare and desperate.

She presses a hand against his shoulder. He falls, pulls her with him, onto the bed, into another kiss, before he shifts, sits up. She reaches for the pillows, his lips falling against her neck, shoulder, arm and back up before she catches hold of one, and tucks it against the wall behind him. He settles against it; she feels the press of a thickly muscled thigh against her back, and ducks her head to kiss him again. Softly this time, tugging his bottom lip between her own, she takes him in hand once more, and he bucks into it. Eyes meet; brown, soft and flickering in the firelight, green, like dappled sunlight through the trees. She waits. He nods. She sinks onto him. Both sets of eyes drift closed. His head lolls back, she curls forward, her head dropping to his shoulder as she presses a kiss against his collarbone. His arms snake around her body; one curving around her back, one hip to the other, pulling her in tightly, one tracing up her back to tangle in her hair, as she wraps her own arm around his powerful shoulders, the other braced on the wall behind them.

She drops another kiss against the join of his shoulder and neck. That place, normally so tense, now loose, relaxed, even as she feels the gentle tugging of the hair at the nape of her neck, as if to say, _I want to see you_ , and she sits up just enough to meet his eye. Nose to nose, breath to breath, she begins to move. His mouth is on hers, her cheek, collarbone, neck, breast. He matches her, they rock together. With background of drumming rain and crackling flame, the world condenses, down, down, down, into this cabin, this room, this bed, this tiny space between them. Above him, she gasps, shudders. Slows. Stills. Under her, he groans, pauses. Shifts. Stops. She nods, faces so close that their noses brush together. He rolls them both, still joined. Her legs wrap around his waist. One hand braced beside her head, he slides the other out from behind her back. His touch is feather-light as he traces up from hip to waist, waist to breast. His fingers, calloused, gentle, dance across her collarbone, up her neck, to cradle her face. Eyes meet; green, half-lidded but focused, brown, warm and smiling up.

He dips his head to kiss her. Again. And again, her hands soft in his hair, on his back. And again, and again, until her fingers tense, and curl, and dig, just a little. Until her back arches and she presses up into him. He smiles against her lips, moves his hand to her hip. And he moves. And she moves. And they move. As one. As all lovers before them have, and as none ever have before. Until a second lived in this togetherness spins out into a minute, a year, a life-time, and yet somehow never reaches the eternity that would sate them both. His hand drifts between them. He feels her shatter around him, he presses into her so deeply that it feels like he is trying to become a part of her, and he comes apart in her arms.

They lie there, chests heaving into each other, foreheads pressed together. They lie there, breath mingling, eyes closed. They lie there, arms wrapped around each other, unwilling to part.

Eventually, he moves, pulls away. She feels her heart clench, her fingers reaching out to graze his arm as he rolls a little further. Just far enough to reach for the tissues before he is back, a kiss dropped on her cheek and they clean themselves, each other. He gets up, returns the box to its place. She crawls under the covers, watches his chiseled form, like a marble-carved Hercules granted life, silhouetted in the light from the woodstove as he tosses the used tissues in. And she wonders how it could be possible to be ten feet away and still be aching for his return. He catches her staring when he looks over his shoulder, smiles softly. He puts another log on the fire and walks back to the bed where she waits. She lifts the covers for him, arm draping around his waist as he slides in beside her. He pulls her closer, tucks her under his chin, drops a kiss into her hair. She smiles against his chest, drifting off in his arms as his fingers begin to card through her hair.


End file.
